


A diary

by afrailmaen (orphan_account)



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afrailmaen
Summary: Life may be meaningless, but the future is not. The past is far behind us, but it leaves marks upon us all.---The diary of a soldier depicting a series of disorganised events, compiled into a single, semi cohesive narrative. Contains footnotes from the various editors of the book. At the petition of the survivors, the names have been changed.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Intro may be a little short, but I'm trying with what I know with this one. There's no improvement without trial and error, am I right?

Intro  
  


As is happened, it just appeared to be the day when Gregory Pilgrim¹ remembered all he had done, and screamed out in a bout of agony and self-hatred. 

The massacres the bodies- he remembered it most.

The children the limbs, they stuck with him the longest.

The lack of help, a lack of punishment, it was their guilt, eating them inside out. At the end of the day, no reckoning was going to arrive, and they, as heinous acts as they had done, were unable to be corrected. They would stick with them forevermore, and then some more.

Their family gone, never to return. They knew this, having seen this with their own eyes. Understood the meaning behind the unbearable muttering, knowing the meaning of the stillness in their half closed eyes.

Their new family, the one that took them in? They were unlikely to care for them any longer. The war was over, and they were all changed.

At least, that’s how the story goes, or how I choose to interpret it. There are times where the difference is nebulous, and the answers, lacking. I can only hope I give my experiences justice, as this... book, develops. The last twenty years have been unkind to humanity, and frankly, it’s been hard for those enslaved as well.

Life may be meaningless, but the future, and if it's not, if that's what I understand this day.²

___________________________________________________________________________

**¹** _It’s important to note that this is most likely a pseudonym. There are no vipers nicknamed, or even named, “Gregory Pilgrim”. It’s unknown why the author decided to hide their true identity under a pseudonym, especially in their diary._

²_The addition of an introduction in English is especially odd. Due to the contents of the diary, it can be assumed that the author was tetra lingual, and their constant switching of languages could be seen as an attempt (albeit a poor one) at hiding the contents of the diary._


	2. Reflections of my Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years latter... the pain never goes away, doesn't it?¹

At the time of writing this, I’m going to be forty years old. I will just have begun to restate myself in studying psychology, second semester of the first year, and somehow, the hordes of lost were still not under control.

Not that I’m complaining, it keeps things quiet, somehow. Cheaper too.

But that’s always the problem, isn’t it? I should be complaining. Some of those affected used to be my friends, my family, my acquaintances. Their bodies to never be buried.

Not even the aliens know how they popped up. They apparently only carried heavy mutagen containers, according to several of those interviewed- it appears that they were all as much of puppets as were the ADVENT soldiers themselves. Not that many feel guilty about what happened, or extensively so. The most notable opinion was that those lost were an “_Irreplaceable loss_”, but of what kind? I barely remember the trials themselves, even if I had to attend them.

…

I do remember the funerals, however. I only went to two, and I’m still never going to forgive for failing… anything really. Call it Christian guilt, or anything similar, I can’t quite make sense of it myself.

The first one… it was of a mother and a child. They died during a retaliatory mission. A viper got them, blast going through them like if they were not there. They had little family remaining, so I was one of the few people there. My presence was unappreciated however- and I was requested to leave. It was only natural to comply, after all, I didn’t want to hurt the remains of a broken family. ²

The second one… I am not sure if I remember who it was.

It’ll come to me, sooner or later- it always does.

…

My life has become a drag, and going back to college has earnt some unwanted attention.

I’m older than most students, and some faculty members. Taller too, if it’s due to genetic engineering I’m refusing to acknowledge, or because I refuse to remember.

Life, however, has remained mostly the same: wake up, go to college, go back home, study, rinse and repeat until you progress. The latter hasn’t happened quite yet, although, it’s only a matter of time when ADHD is taken care of. Despite everything, the gene modification clinics have done an incredible amount of good.

Not that that matters when the popular consensus is that they are death camps for general populous, not like I can blame them.

…

It’s odd to see a 19-year-old institution just collapse you know? Even if don’t consider myself as having lived through those years myself, it’s still just weird seeing those places just fall into abandonment and despair, for better or worse. They handed put the cure for cancer and amyloids like if it were candy on the street. Down syndrome and it’s related abortions became a thing of the past.

On the other, the population of the world now amounted to 5.2 billion people.

Make of that what you will, I’ve grown numb to the numbers myself. Probably because the aliens ended up being just as controlled as us. They all had “mind regulation” tech installed when they were born. Like a tumor, growing in their head, removing the “heretic thoughts”. Not that it mattered anyway- the psychic network had fallen, and with it, the biochips encoded into their genetic code. ³ Even if trials were held, several members of the defence (correctly) pointed out that not only were there multiple individuals that could not be held accountable for their actions.

I really don’t know how to feel about that.

______________________________________

¹_From here on out, the writer of the diary begins writing small snippets of what appear to be disconnected thoughts. While some may be connected from page to page, they mostly appear nonsensical, even by human standards._

²_Based on this information, it was easy to trace the individuals who were affected- at their discretion, they shall remain unnamed. The eldest, when questioned about what happened, answered that “(The writer) was an unnecessary reminder of what happened (…). (Me and my sister) found their presence to be distressing, in more ways than one.” When asked to explain in further detail, both individuals politely declined._

³_While this is true for most ADVENT alien species, and the only way to control the Chryssalid, this wasn’t a universal rule. While possessing free will, certain species (such as the Sectoid) have remained under ADVENT control for so long to no longer merit a biochip. In spite of this, no ADVENT individuals of any species were held accountable for their actions. It is believed that this helped promoted the post war wave of alien hatred._


	3. A day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I read the news today, Oh boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important notice: the ~~~ bars before and after represent real events, and thus, they won't be commented on by "the editor". The ... just represent a small time skip. A line in the diary to separate different sessions of writing.

My day began, like many others before it, on grooming myself and getting ready to leave to college, checking on my phone, and watering the plants.

Splashing my face with water, I didn’t linger too long on anything else. Checking the time, it was still five. Enough time to get there without paying for a bus. Leaving the door closed, I begin to head to college. Just go north, don’t change direction. That’s how I always led myself before, and that’s how I’m doing it now.

The streets are silent as I go down them. Not much stirs at this time, other than me and the occasional bird. I’m sure I saw a hairy black another thing, a rat, once, it didn’t last long, however, as it ran away. Reminds me that despite ADVENT’s efforts, some vermin still survived. Can’t say the same about pigeons, however, haven’t seen a single one nor in the present, nor in my repressed memories.

There’s not much to write on days like these. It’s nice, I like the calm. I wouldn’t go back in time. Or maybe I would if it was more than 22 years, but to do what? Wallow in the inevitable? About how cold the climate is? Or about how I would be entirely out of place? It’s not hard to picture such things.

At this hour, the city is welcoming to my anxieties. The twilight doesn’t judge you by your actions, such as burning hospitals, or… other untasteful activities. The past seems distant, in this morning haze.

A splash of water, a speeding truck. Fortunately, I had my stuff on my bag. I’m still going to take a bath when I get home.

At the current moment, however, I only wish to arrive on time and to graduate college. That’s as far as my long, and short term plans, go. There’s really not much else on the list. Probably get some ice cream that won’t kill me due to my high intolerance to milk and sugar but that’s probably it.

I don’t really plan to go back to the extended family, or to go visit the old comrades. They only bring back bad memories.

I’m not willing to go to counselling either. It’s not that It’ll make me look weak, it’s something else.

…

I have gone to the supermarket today.

There are some faces. A number look like me, and the other not like me.

My wallet sits on the interior of my jacket pocket. I’m going to have to remember to take it out when I go to the washing machine. I think I left in there when I put it in the clothes basket, I’m going to have to check on it later before I stuff it in. I’m glad I kept spare shirts.

On the supermarket itself, however, it rested on my bag, then, or some time ago. This whole… tense thing gets odd, sometimes.

Serves me right for talking the wrong language for twenty years straight.

So, back at the mall. I wanted… meat. I lacked that, at home. And eggs. I ran out yesterday. Butter? I think I had that, back home, so I didn’t bother buying that.

~~~   
“¿Un kilogramo de carne molida?” <One kilogram of ground beef?> The lady, the one tending to the butcher section, seemed a little incredulous. Was it too much for one person? Where was the one that attended the stand day after day? She knew I always picked a kilogram every once in a while. As typical for the region, this “new lady” had black hair and brown eyes.  
“Si, por favor.” <Yes please> My words come out tired without meaning to. I remain straight, it’s poor manners to look to the floor when talking to someone else, my mother used to say. She wordlessly fills a bag with the desired meat, weighs it, then hands it over. I hand over the desired credits. It always was 10 creds, so I barely had to look at the color of the bill.

“Oye! son doce créditos. Me debes dos.” <Hey! It’s twelve creds, you need two.> Sighing, I hand her the two metallic slabs symbolizing the required change. It’s best not to argue, life was doing good, no need to complicate it over small things like that. When I arrived home, I was probably going to forget that small exchange, or relegate it to the things that I didn’t like remembering. I receive my sustenance, and I take my leave. Things went smoothly all things considered. No insults were launched.  
~~~

All went well, I suppose. Things are calm. Not much trouble. The odd lady that usually attends is missing. I hope she’s doing well. The new one was kind of cold, but she’s probably nice.

Only two eggs got cracked when I was walking home. It’s honestly kind of a relief.

…

Some other feeling comes over when I’m doing homework, it’s kind of hard to describe.

Failure, perhaps? It’s hard to tell.

I’m not quite sure what is it, myself. It’s similar to sadness, but it’s… just not quite depression. It’s plausible that it is melancholy. But for what? Life is…

~~~  
I don’t understand crap. It’s just reading, but I can’t make sense of things. Have I gone crazy? Or has my mind degraded enough so the only thing I knew how to do was how to follow orders?

I look back at my handwriting. Legible enough. I still hate it. It’s not the language or the words, it’s just because it was a stupid idea, I progress, nevertheless.

I miss everyone, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to write that down.

~~~

Good enough. I have nothing to long for, or to wish for more. Why would I feel like this?

Class and shopping went well, I guess. Walking home less so. The walls of my house got painted again with that awfulgraffiti.

“No xenos.”

“Fuck off back home”

“Deja nuestra ciudad animal.”

Fucking hell. I am more native to the region than them.

Time to clean the wall later.


	4. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it getting better
> 
> Or do you feel the same?

Bucket of soapy water.

A bucket of soapy water, and a sponge.

A bucket of soapy water, a sponge, and some other crap.

I’m not going to write this down. It’s too mundane, too trivial.

Or maybe I should, who knows? The internet certainly says it’s a good idea to “let it all out”. But it’s the fucking internet.

The sky is clear. A rarity in days of the old, but with the smog somewhat gone, the sun feels nice on my skin.

Scrubbing up and down they spray paint persists. It should come off after enough scrubbing, but when It wore down like this it ended up being a drag…

My scrubbing comes to halt. Someone has been looking at me, on the corner of the street. They walk off when I spot them, but I know they were there. One of those mockeries, a tank bred Viper. I’m glad they have a life, less happy so that.

Returning to my duties, imagine my surprise when they begin overlooking at my works once more. His attempts at being discrete fall into the childish “Peek over a corner and hope for the best” category. Does he really think I can’t see him?

“_Could you NOT?_” He drops the act too; I think I made it clear to him that I dislike being observed. Coming by, I still find it odd seeing them dressed, even if partially

“_Hello_.” She blinks a couple of times. I don’t know what they could possibly want, yet. They’re not known for being alone, so maybe I should expect her friends, too? 

“What do you want?” Voice stern, I try to not let go of my annoyance  
“Do you remember me?” Out of the millions identical to you, I might need a better explanation to that “me”.  
“Could you not? I’m trying to forget all of that.” It’s how I roll these days, try to forget till you can’t forget any more. To be honest, it doesn’t seem to work very well in making me feel better.  
“_Why?_”  
“_You haven’t answered my question_.”  
“Was there an answer to that question in the first place? The answer is no, by the way.” He’s growing cheeky, the fucker. Might as well let him preach for Jesus or whatever they did these days.  
“…” I sigh, then shake my head. Most tank bred Vipers look the same, and I have purposefully attempted to repress the memories of my time under ADVENT control. I knew enough, I didn’t desire to attain more knowledge about what I didn’t how I behaved, who I killed, what orders I followed. Just having this conversation was enough to bring some of the less favourable ones to the surface. With this in mind, it was probably an opportune moment to end the conversation, if I discovered how. _“Why are you so interested if I remember you? Did I know you well_?”

“_179824, if you were called back to duty, would you accept_?”

“…”

My blood runs cold. I haven’t been called that in a long time. Or at least, as long as two years are. It’s not too long, but just enough to spark enough hatred so that a shove pushes him backwards. I didn’t care that she fell on her ass, I wanted him gone.

“_Get the fuck out-”_

“_Listen, I didn’t mea-”_

“_I MEAN GET LOST. NOW._”

I don’t shout, I try not to. It’s clear that I could crush a physically weaker opponent if shit came to shove. I was never going back to them. I would stand by my ground on my beliefs, and never allow myself to commit such atrocities for anyone, or to anyone. Makes sense for tank breds to have no sense of morality, the fuckers. It scurries away, dashing past a… close friend.

“¿Quién coño fue esa?” Tiago doesn’t look particularly amazed. His expression underneath his balding head and his ever messy beard is one of bewilderment. It’s not often when I use the Lingua franca of the invaders, so he knew it must have been something, or someone important. Walking over to my side, carrying those reusable bags I often saw him returning with, it’s easy to deduce he’s coming back home.

“Nadie, solo ve a adentro, ya limpio las paredes.” He shakes his head in disbelief. He understood the subtext, and the message was clear to him: We’ll talk about this later. For now, cleaning the walls would be to clean my mind.

I scrub away at the paint, relieved to see it go away, piece by piece. Sooner or later, after the discussion, I would burry this scornful memory, just like the rest.  
I take the time to add a small note to the whole diary thing. I kept thinking about ditching it, however.  
~~~

Cleaning the wall was a breeze, not much went wrong.

Why I ever though anything would arrise is beyond me.


	5. An update

Hi.  
It’s probably obvious that this story won’t go on, or become anything noteworthy if it remains with me. So I’m leaving it up for adoption. I hope you can make something better out of this than I could.


End file.
